The Missing Story
by SeraphJewel
Summary: No one knew what to think when the stranger rolled into town. When he finally told his story, no one knew what to believe.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT or any of the characters. No profit is made here.

_**Prologue**_

The hot sun beat down against his skin, the breeze lightly playing with strands of his hair. He loved this feeling more than any other. Birds called out to each other; their wings fluttered hard to keep in formation. He took in a deep breath so his nostrils could catch all the smells. He felt sweat trickle its way down his jaw.

All these years later and he still couldn't get enough of it. He felt the pull of muscle and response of bone as he stretched his arms up over his head contently. This was paradise.

A sudden, sharp pain shot up his left leg. He let out a surprised gasp of pain and instinctively clutched the spot. He felt pain before but this was different. This time it felt beyond his skin, muscle, bone. Down to his very core.

His very core… He was almost afraid to look. But curiosity got the best of him and shakily his fingers pulled up the cuff of his pant leg.

A brief glimpse was all he needed. He jerked down the leg again to cover it.

"Damn," he breathed out. "Guess it's finally time."

His watch read 8:15.


	2. The Diner

_The Diner_

The baby's body was warm and heavy in his arms. She squirmed restlessly in the knitted blanket but he just pulled it tighter around her. Maybe it didn't have any magic in this place but he still felt it could protect her if it was kept close.

His muscles started to ache so he stopped by a tree to take a break. Little Emma fit perfectly on his lap, her eyes staring up at him. He smiled at her; he got a soft coo back. It was the only comforting sound he heard so far. The metal bird hadn't come back but he remembered its terrible roar.

But that was something foreign. What bothered Pinocchio was how even the creaking of the trees and the rustle of the wind felt unfamiliar. Back home he still felt a faint kinship with the forest, but here he was a stranger.

He started walking again, thinking only of getting Emma away from these woods. His arms ached from holding Emma so long but he needed to keep walking. He was brave, honest and unselfish.

After walking for a long time Pinocchio stumbled upon a large black river. He stood on the edge wondering what to do now. A metal beast rolled by, surprising him out of his wariness. He lifted a trembling foot and touched the black river. It was solid as stone. But just to be safe he ran as quickly as he could to the other side. Once he got there he couldn't stop trembling for two minutes.

Being brave was so much harder than he expected. Pinocchio took a deep breath and steadied himself. He made it to a building with delicious smells emanating from the windows. He and Emma remembered food at the same time, she reacting with wails and he with a growling stomach. Thinking of Hansel and Gretel made him hesitate but then he saw adults walking into the building. He gathered his bravery again and stepped inside.

The people inside were all wearing strange clothes and at first didn't notice the boy. Emma's hungry cries instantly got their attention.

"Hello there, little boy. You're pretty responsible for taking care of your little sister like this." Pinocchio stared blankly at the man. "Where are your parents?" Panic rose up in him. He couldn't tell these people about the Enchanted Forest or their escape to this land without magic. The queen might hear of it and then Emma would be in danger.

_What do I do? Papa, please…_

"I'm not her brother. I just found her. I was walking by the…" He gestured vaguely and the man was kind enough to fill in the blank.

"The road?"

"The road," Pinocchio repeated. The lies came so easily once he started. "I could hear this noise and at first I thought it was an animal, but when I got closer I saw the blanket. It was this little baby. She sounded so scared; I couldn't just leave her there. I picked her up and carried her here."

"That is the most amazing story I've ever heard," the man said with a smile. "Here, I want to buy you something to eat." He gently steered the boy and his precious bundle to a chair. Pinocchio held Emma protectively close to him and kept his eyes on the door.

He started to relax when he saw the food. They tried to take Emma away but he refused, and in the end he was shown how to feed her. Everyone was amazed by how responsible he was and how much he clearly cared for this baby. They gathered around and praised him for being brave, honest and unselfish.

It wasn't wrong to lie for a good reason, was it? Pinocchio wished that Jiminy Cricket was there to tell him for sure, but the only still small voice left was his own.


	3. The Placement

_The Placement_

Pinocchio may not have been honest, but he was certainly clever. He allowed the adults to tell his story so by the time they guided him and Emma away from the diner, he was a hero. They were also kind enough to fill in gaps of knowledge; they unknowingly taught him words like "car", "police" and "newspaper". This world may be one without magic, but they clearly knew how to compensate.

On the way to "social services" Pinocchio transformed his father into a brave war hero. After more than one adult asking about the man's whereabouts he had to come up with something, and couldn't bring himself to kill him even in a lie. So he said (almost truthfully) that his father was fighting a war and wouldn't be back soon.

Which brought him and Emma to social services. As Pinocchio understood it, this was where children were taken until an adult decided to want them. Such an idea was completely beyond him. Whatever the social workers said Pinocchio insisted he stay with Emma. They told him such a placement would be difficult but he insisted.

"I have to look out for her! Emma is my responsibility!"

They soothed him with promises that they would stay together. While he and Emma waited for someone to want them he was given things to keep him entertained. He was most fascinated by the books. All these words collecting into stories about far-off places filled with magic. They made home feel a little closer.

Pinocchio played with Emma as much as he could. He let her suck on his fingers and when she was sad he made funny faces. When it got dark he looked out to find the stars. There were hardly any at all. Everything was different here.

One day a social worker pulled him aside and told him that there might be people willing to take both him and Emma. "But I don't have your name to put on the form," she concluded. "I don't think anyone ever asked you."

Pinocchio was ready for this one. He had no choice with Emma's name; it was stitched into her blanket, impossible to ignore. As for himself, he knew better than to give out his real name: Rumeplstiltskin was cursed here along with everyone else.

"August," he replied. "My name is August." The lady wrote it down without question. After all, why would a little kid lie about their own name?

A man came for them soon afterward. He barely gave the children a glance before signing the papers. Pino- August watched him and knew this man didn't really want them. Why he was willingly taking them anyway was a mystery. Going with him took a lot of bravery.


	4. The Escape

_The Escape_

He and Emma weren't the only ones taken in by this mysterious benefactor. Other children were already there waiting. August didn't like the way they sized him up and pressed Emma closer to him. Eventually they backed off, allowing him to collapse on a bed. They tried taking Emma away and at first he refused to let go. But he was so tired his fingers lost their grip.

August woke in a panic, searching everywhere for Emma until he finally found her lying peacefully in what he learned was a "crib". She wiggled her arms and cooed at him. Smiling back, August kissed his fingers and rubbed them against her forehead.

Over the next few days August learned a lot about their new surroundings. There were things like "school" and "homework" that the children dreaded, and "television" that they loved. The television fascinated him; he was convinced it was magic until one of the kids showed him how it worked. The other kids were happy to show him all kinds of things: how to get candy when they went out, what to do in a fight, and when to keep his mouth shut.

In his free time he explored around. If he walked in somewhere he shouldn't he got a hard hit from the man. "You don't have the right to go in there!" the man would shout. Most of the kids called him "Sir" to his face and names like "Big Ugly" behind his back. As long as Emma was safe, August could take a few hits.

His biggest find was in a book called _Fairy Tales_. August couldn't believe that anyone would write about fairies. But it turned out to be more incredible than that. Snow White, Red Riding Hood, Rumpelstiltskin, Cinderella… They were all here within the pages. The details changed but the story was the same.

"Emma…" August could hardly stop his fingers from trembling. "Emma, this is why you need me to help you believe. And I _will_; I promise I'll help you believe in us." His own story he kept to himself but he told her about everyone else.

The other kids didn't make it easy on him. "Those stories are for babies," they sneered. Or "Only idiots believe in fairies". August hated the sound of them laughing. He was supposed to be protected from the curse but it felt like it was still seeping into him, making him doubt.

It was so hard to be good. Whenever he tried, the other kids mocked him or Big Ugly scolded him. Don't touch this, don't go there, this isn't yours. They weren't wanted here but where else could they go?

One of the other kids found a roll of money. They could get away… but Emma would be left behind.

August hated this place. Looking after Emma all the time was exhausting, and he couldn't even do it without ridicule. The thought of watching her day after day for the next twenty-eight years was horrifying. As long as he stayed here he was trapped. _But I promised. Everyone's counting on me._ It was too much a burden to bear; he wasn't strong enough.

"I'm sorry, Emma," he whispered, kissing his fingers and rubbing her forehead one last time. He could hear her crying after him; he didn't look back once.

He was a coward, a liar and selfish. He was only human.


	5. The Roadside

_The Roadside_

The bus was pulling away before regret fully hit him, but by then it was too late. He rested his forehead against the window glass and watched the scenery fade into the distance. August couldn't stop thinking about her all alone in her crib. What if she was crying right now? He wouldn't be there to make faces and make her smile again.

His hand shot up and pulled the emergency stop. The driver obediently pulled off to the side of the road.

"Turn around!" August begged. "I forgot something."

"This isn't a taxi, kid," the driver snapped back. "Now quit playing around! I have a schedule to keep." August had no choice but to sit down and wait for the bus to make its next stop. The other kids were filing out so he followed along.

The boy with the roll of money started peeling back what was left and handing it out to the others. "This will hold you for a while. Just be careful the cops don't catch you or they'll drag you right back into the system." August stuffed his share of the money in his pants pocket.

"What do we do now?" he wondered.

"Whatever we want." And with that the group started to disperse. August stayed in place watching the people walk by. _Do whatever we want…_ What he wanted was to go back to Emma, but he couldn't anymore. Even if he knew the way, Big Ugly would be angry that the kids ran off. August didn't want to endure any more hits from that man.

He chose a direction and started walking. All the adults were so wrapped up in their own lives they didn't notice the child among them. As he walked August's fingers clenched tightly around the brim of his hat. He might have given up everything else from home but he couldn't let go of this.

August walked until the hunger and thirst was too much for him. He pulled out the money in his pocket. Big Ugly complained about money a lot. Money for food, clothes, electricity, even water. Everything cost something and August didn't have nearly enough. He sat down right there on the sidewalk, dropping his hat onto his lap and covering his face with his hands.

"Papa," he whispered. "Papa, please…" The tears felt hot against his fingers. A hand touched the top of his head. August let out a gasp and dropped his hands. "Papa?"

"I'm sorry." The woman took an awkward step back. "Did you lose your father?" August blinked back his tears and nodded. "Here, I'll take you to the police. They'll help you find him." _Just be careful the cops don't catch you_.

"No, no, I… I know where he is. I just got a call from him. He's very sick, and I need to get to him right away. But I don't have enough money for a bus ticket."

"You poor thing. I could drive you…"

"It's okay." August wiped away his tears. He didn't even feel guilty about his lies anymore. They felt very natural coming out of his mouth. "I don't remember the directions; I just know which bus to take."

"Then let me at least give you some money." The woman started digging out her purse and this time August didn't protest.

He used the money she gave him to buy something to eat and drink. Having a full belly made him more relaxed. It was a relief to him now that Emma didn't come along. She was so small… She would be safer where he left her. Big Ugly was mean, but he wouldn't hurt a baby.

August found a place to sleep where hopefully the cops wouldn't find him. The night turned cold and he ended up shivering the whole time. He would need to get warm clothes tomorrow. His mind was already full of the lies he needed.

Emma would have to wait.


	6. The Distraction

_The Distraction_

A small crowd gathered to watch the performance. Puppet- creations of cloth stitched together- danced before their eyes and told a story. Today's story was a humorous one, pulling laughs out of everyone who watched. When it was over they applauded and showed their appreciation by dropping money into the boy's overturned hat.

August discovered early on that focusing on one person at a time only gave him money for his next meal. Then he remembered his father's puppet show and decided to use it as a way of getting more money. Now there was finally enough for August to buy a warm coat. Unfortunately it took nearly everything, and he was forced to do it all over again so he could eat.

He also needed to change locations to draw new crowds. That required a lot of walking, so August decided he should buy new shoes. The ones he got from Big Ugly were worn from the start; now they were close to falling apart. It took a while for him to raise the money.

But the shopkeeper wouldn't let him inside. After so many nights spent sleeping outside, he was no longer suited to be in public. This meant money for a bath. Then he found he needed not just shoes but clothes as well. After that he found his hair was getting too long, which required money to get it cut short again.

Just when the thought of Emma tried to cross his mind, something else more immediate pushed it out of the way. When it wasn't the worry over his next meal it was hunting for a place to sleep. Now and then August wondered about the other kids. Were they in the same situation? Did they have to fight for food and shelter? What were the doing to avoid the cold and rain? He hoped they were all okay, wherever they were.

In his spare time August watched television from store windows and read books in the library. He needed to learn everything he could about this world so he could live in it easier. Yet learning came at a price: the more he knew the farther he felt from his home. They traded magic for science and stories like his were too fantastic for anyone to believe. He was horrified and fascinated in the pages detailing all their adventures.

August imagined little Emma growing up with these stories. How could he make her believe in her destiny when the world told her that her own parents weren't even real? He never should've left her…

But he did, and there was nothing he could do about it now. Besides, his money was starting to run low again and he needed a blanket to keep warm during the cold nights. August needed to survive first. There was plenty of time to find Emma and help her believe.


	7. The Change

_The Change_

The truck bed vibrated under him. He could feel every bump in the road but didn't try for a more comfortable position. From his spot he could watch the steady dip and rise of the power lines. Even the constant heat of the sun didn't bother him. He welcomed the burns and sweat that came from it.

August felt the vibrations roll to a stop. Groggily he lifted his head to see that the driver pulled up to a gas station. There were a few other cars pulled up at the pumps so August slid on his back off the back of the truck. The adults were too busy to notice a boy sneaking among the gas pumps. August checked his reflection to be sure he looked presentable.

This was always his least favorite part: leaving a reliable form of transportation. He rode with this truck for miles, enjoying sunning himself the whole way, but now it was time to move on. It was a rule August made for himself. He never stayed in one place for too long and he certainly never gave the adults reason to take him back to social services.

August waited a few more minutes before going into the station for some food and water. He took some time in the bathroom to splash his face and wash off some of the sweat. His face hurt from the sunburn; the skin wasn't quite so pale these days but it still turned red easily.

He walked across the street to eat and decide on what to do next. His cash funds were running low and he needed a haircut again. At first he thought to ignore his appearance and save his money for things like food, but he quickly learned that clean clothes and managed hair were just as important if he wanted to blend in. Once he figured it out, living in this world became much easier.

Strangely, he didn't feel lonely most of the time. He met people every day: kind strangers buying into his stories, kids in the playgrounds and parks, store clerks, librarians, or just voices on the radio. The loneliness only came when he listened to crickets too closely or watched a father playing with his son. And then there were the babies. Every time he heard a baby crying August felt a tug at his heart and, weirdly enough, his leg itched.

August didn't know what any of it meant but it bothered him. He tried to push it as far out of his thoughts as possible.

And anything else that could remotely remind him of it. August frowned, tugging on a strand of his hair. He needed to change more than just the length. Then he could finally say goodbye to Pinocchio for good.


	8. The Work

_The Work_

Voices shouted to each other over the cacophonous roar of machines. Men were operating these machines, guiding them to lift heavy beams or drill holes into the ground. Some were walking miles above the ground on narrow beams. It was difficult to tell from the framework what they were building, but it was bound to be majestic.

"Hey, kid!" August jumped at the voice. One of the workers was waving at him. Cautiously August drew closer so he could hear over all the noise. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm just watching. I didn't mean to get in the way."

"I meant why aren't you in school?"

"I'm home-schooled, sir." August spoke so confidently these days that his lies could barely be distinguished from truth to the untrained ear. "I'm studying urban development and my father wanted me to get some real-life experience."

"Your dad here now?"

"He's over there." August pointed to a man across the street. "The construction noise bothers him." There was a silence as the older man studied August's supposed father.

"Okay, kid. Just stay back and don't distract my workers." August did as he was told. He didn't stay very long, though; his fake father eventually boarded a bus. But he saw just enough to remind him of the joys that came from building.

Several days later at a different site August tried asking for work. Over and over no matter what story he told or what he wore, he was dismissed as too young. He even offered to do things for free and they turned him away. August sat by a pond wondering how he could possibly be too young. He barely recognized his own reflection: a dark-haired boy wearing a button-down shirt and slacks blinked back at him.

Maybe he was trying too hard. The hair dye was for himself, but the rest he thought would make them take him more seriously. All it did so far was make every other kid want to hit him. Yet another lesson to learn about this world.

August found refuge in a playground. He waited for sleep to come but he felt too restless, so he went for a walk back to the construction site. It was quiet; all the machines were still, their operators gone for the evening. August only hesitated for a moment before stepping into the site. Tools familiar and strange called to him.

_These aren't yours! Nothing here is yours!_ The ghost of a voice came back to him. Instinctively he flinched before realizing no blow would come this time. August forced his hand forward to pick up a tool. It was a hammer: its wooden handle felt good in his grip, the metal head an assuring weight. It felt right to hold it. Minutes later he was driving nails into wood and sanding down rough edges.

The adults didn't even notice that some of their work was done for them. August's muscles ached and his hands were blistered from the work, but he never felt better. He started sleeping during the day so he could come back every night. With his help the beams became walls and a roof.

It was so satisfying August almost hated to walk away from it. But there were too many other things to experience. He could always build again another day.


	9. The Edge

_The Edge_

The thing he loved best about all this was the uncertainty in his next moment. When August climbed into the bed of a truck there was no telling where it was headed, or how long he would stay before he was forced to move on. He loved not being tied down by plans. All August needed to worry about was keeping out of sight.

Sometimes when he had the money he splurged and bought a bus ticket. Those journeys kept him from the breeze and sun, so he kept them for when he traveled far north. August discovered he enjoyed the snow as much as the sun. He would lay out and make shapes with his body, then later he warmed up with a mug of hot cocoa. It was one of the best combinations he discovered so far.

The only thing August concerned himself with was money. He kept enough for food, and to buy new clothes when needed. For baths he usually made do with river water or just stood outside during a heavy rain. He learned to cut his own hair and if he needed more than the open sky as shelter, he built it himself.

The more August saw of this world, the more he came to love it. He knew about mountains and forests, but the structures built by man were just as amazing. They actually carved faces into stone, designed towers and arches, erected statues of both real and fictional people, and many other incredible things. All of this without any magical help.

August wanted to soak everything in, but found he was missing out on two hundred years of history. This world had schools to teach that history, but August tried that once and didn't like it. Instead he learned in his own way: through books. When he wasn't on the road he was holed up in a library reading everything from philosophy to romance. These books took him to places farther than any bus could travel. They made him long to see it all with his own eyes.

He stood with his bare feet in the grainy sand, watching the waves roll back and forth in gentle motions. It took him a long time to get to this place. For a while he almost believed it didn't exist, yet here he was staring at an endless sea.

Slowly August stepped forward. The water was at his ankles now. It felt warm and although the tide was gentle, it still felt like the water was pulling him forward. August closed his eyes to recall all the stories he read about the sea: the sailor trying to get home after a war, the old man struggling against a fish, the captain exploring twenty thousand leagues below the surface, the pirates searching for treasure, the many explorers searching for a new land, the madman hunting down a whale… That last one was one of August's favorites.

The waves were pulling him in deeper, dragging him deep down. A whale roared and opened its mouth wide to take him in…

August's eyes snapped open as he took hurried steps back toward more solid ground. His body trembled all over and his heart hammered erratically in his chest. He could hide in a stranger's truck or stow away in a dark train car; he could bear rain and snow and intense heat; he could even handle living apart from his father. But the ocean, he couldn't handle that. Not in person.

But he could run away from this. He could keep on running for as long as possible.


	10. The Boys

_The Boys_

First one planted the seed, then they gave it plenty of water and sunlight. A sapling soon sprouted from the earth. Now one needed to ward off weeds so the plant could grow in peace. After many years the sapling would become a tree. All this August knew because he came from one. Yet he knew very little about real boys.

He stood with his fingers threading through the wire fence, pressed close so he could watch the kids on the other side. August learned a lot about this world by reading books, but couldn't find any that divulged the mysteries of the real boy. Like, why did some boys hit a ball with a stick and then run around? And why were these boys kicking a ball back and forth?

The ball hit his fence, making him jump back in surprise. One of the boys ran up to retrieve it. He noticed August and the two boys stared at each other. August could hardly remember the last time he was face-to-face with a child his age. He spent so much time on the road he hardly gave himself time to socialize; staring at this kid now, he realized that was probably a mistake.

"You want to play with us?"

"I don't know how," August confessed. "Because," he quickly added, seeing the shocked expression on the other boy's face, "my father travels for work and takes me along with him. I don't have time to play any games."

Not only did the boy accept this story, but he enthusiastically invited August to play with them anyway. It turned out the game wasn't that hard: he just kicked the ball to the other boys. After they tired themselves out they sat in the grass to swap stories. Obviously the boys wanted to hear about his travels, but he insisted on hearing from them instead.

They talked to him more about sports and school. To his amazement he discovered they were also interested in saving princesses and heroic journeys. Some of those heroes carried strange weapons: bullwhips and swords of light, for example. The boys still loved them and lit up when retelling the stories. August casually mentioned stories he knew, but the others scoffed and dismissed those as fairy tales for babies.

Vaguely August was reminded of those boys he fell in with back at home. "The stories were better the way my father told them," he insisted. When they exchanged doubtful looks August was compelled to clarify: "For one thing, Prince Charming kills a siren."

"That definitely would make the story better," one of the boys agreed.

"Maybe I can tell you more stories later," August suggested. "My father will be looking for me." He stood up, brushing the grass strands off his shorts. He was reluctant to go, but these boys had parents and houses waiting for them.

August spent the evening listening to the trees. The familiar creaks of the moving branches, the calls of the nocturnal animals, the smell of leaves and bark… Usually these things made him think of home and he felt at ease. Tonight all he could think of was laughing boys kicking a ball around, and rescuing pretend princesses with light swords.

He came back again and again, soaking in the presence of these boys greedily. Even if he knocked them down they still seemed to like him. So much that he couldn't bring himself to say goodbye when it was time to move on. He just disappeared from their lives, leaving all his stories with them.

As he climbed into the train car he thought he heard a baby crying. August wiped at his cheeks until they stopped feeling wet.


	11. The Growing

_The Growing_

It probably seemed strange to other kids his age, but for August there was nothing better than aching muscles after a long day of work. He loved the feeling of his heart hammering rapidly against his chest and even how his throat burned from lack of water. It was such a great feeling that sometimes he traveled on his own feet.

It was good he liked it so much, because he was needing to do it more often these days. He found it harder to sneak onto the back of trucks unnoticed, and though he didn't get as many curious gazes on the bus he didn't want to spend his money on tickets.

August also noticed the troubling fact that people weren't stopping by his puppet shows anymore. It was one thing to watch a cute kid putting on a show, but apparently people no longer saw him as cute or a kid. When did that happen? He grew so gradually he didn't even notice until those around him started reacting. They even stopped asking him where his parents were.

He should've been relieved at the change, but instead he felt lost. The label of "child" took him so far. What did they see him as now?

August's heart was just starting to slow in his chest. He stared at the others in the car but they didn't seem interested in him. One of them was even asleep. This was by far August's least favorite form of travel. The train car was dark and hot, and felt incredibly cramped with other bodies taking up space. August wouldn't have jumped in if there were any other choices.

Unfortunately he was getting low on money and his shoes were so worn he could've done better going barefoot. The others in the car with him didn't look much better; maybe that was why they didn't ask too many questions. It was a relief to not make up a story.

His puppets no longer brought in crowds but August wanted to keep the skill fresh in his mind. Whenever he found a useful block of wood he started carving. Whales, donkeys, crickets, little wooden boys… He couldn't stand looking at them but couldn't bring himself to throw them away, either. So he did the next best thing.

"You want to sell these?" The storekeeper offered him an endearing smile. "Well, aren't you a little entrepreneur. How old are you, anyway?"

"Ummm." That was a good question. He remembered being asked that when he brought Emma to the diner. He gave an answer then, but he grew so much since then he doubted the same answer would work this time.

"You look about the same age as my son. He's twelve." All August could do was nod his head. The word "son" brought a painful tug at his heart. The storekeeper ended up buying all this carvings and even offered an old pair of his son's shoes. But that word stuck with him; he couldn't shake it for a long time.

Son… When was the last time he saw his father? If he really did look twelve, that made it five years. Giving it a number made it feel longer, like August could see all the years separating them.

If he kept growing, maybe one day he would grow fully away from that old life. He could be completely August and all those lingering pieces wouldn't mean a thing.


	12. The Attraction

_The Attraction_

At first August thought he was having one of those lucid dreams he read about in books. The setup looked so much like what he would expect from the Enchanted Forest that it caught him off guard. But then he saw the others that, like him, were dressed in jeans and T-shirts embroidered with band names. Puzzled but intrigued, August stepped forward to investigate.

There was a man dressed as a court jester juggling for an enraptured crowd. In another place a man was roasting a pig over a fire. Vendors shouted out their wares to any who passed by. There was the distinct thrum of a lute's strings, accompanied by a reed pipe. If August didn't know better, he would think he stepped into some kind of festival.

"Good sir, would you like to buy one of my bracelets? It would look well on a fair lady's wrist." August turned at the voice and felt himself momentarily lost for words. The girl didn't look much older than him, her long brown hair styled in two braids that fell down her back. She wore a simple green dress but accented it with a silver cross necklace.

"Why aren't you wearing one, then?" he asked, realizing the moment he spoke the words how cheesy they sounded. Thankfully the girl just smiled at him.

"Such kind words, sir. I'm honored."

"So what is all this?" August quickly changed the subject. "What's going on?"

"You have stumbled upon our humble fair. If you linger, you may see a friendly swordfight between two knights."

"Knights?" August echoed the word in surprise. "You have those here? Real ones?" For some reason the girl found this funny.

"Most certainly we do. Have you never attended a fair before?" August's face must've been answer enough, because the girl laughed and threaded her arm through his. "In that case, allow me to guide you. My name is Leah."

"I'm August." He held out his hand but the girl curtseyed to him instead. With her on his arm, August toured the fair. At first Leah tried to explain what was happening; it didn't take long for August to jump in. All of this felt so familiar to him. He applauded enthusiastically with everyone else when the knights stepped forward for their mock fight. Unfortunately, his enjoyment was short-lived. "There's something weird… Those swords aren't real."

"Of course not!" Leah gave him a strange look. "Did you think we had a DeLorean parked in the back?" August couldn't help but laugh at the comment. Leah joined in, playfully slapping him on the arm "I didn't mean to break character, but I couldn't resist. _Back to the Future_ is one of my favorite movies!" With the character broken Leah became a lot more relaxed. She told August she volunteered at these medieval fairs every year; August was amazed that these modern-day people would celebrate the past like this.

August ended up staying at the fair all day. When it was over he volunteered to help pack everything up. He kept catching Leah's eyes and exchanging smiles. She had changed into a flower print shirt and blue jeans once all the fair-goers left, and was now busy packing up all her unsold bracelets. August found excuses to walk over to her just so they could be closer. Somehow just being near her made his heart race.

"August, my dad's going to be picking me up in a minute," Leah mentioned. "But I really liked hanging out with you today. Do you think I could see you tomorrow?" His heart practically jumped at the suggestion.

"Yes, I'd love that!" They solidified their plans and August watched her go with a light feeling in his chest.

He started seeing Leah every day. Their conversations were casual at first: she would tell him about her large family and he would talk about his travels. But that quickly evolved and by the third day they were sitting together enjoying an outdoor picnic. August had to sell a lot of wood carvings to pay for the food, but it was well worth it to see Leah's smile.

"Leah, listen." He paused, tilting his head to the side. She echoed his gesture with a puzzled expression. "Crickets."

"They're having quite a conversation. What do you think they're talking about?"

"Us, of course. They're wondering what two humans are doing out here and why we won't share our food." She laughed, breaking off a piece of celery and tossing it out toward the grass. "And now they're saying 'thank you, Leah'."

"They know my name?" she asked playfully. August gestured for her to get closer so he could whisper.

"I told them all about you. I speak cricket, you know." It was very close to the truth. He touched her arm, wanting her to stay close. Her eyes were such a beautiful shade of green… They reminded him of the forest.

His heart was fluttering wildly, his breaths coming out nervous. His body leaned forward and closed his eyes seconds before their lips connected. The contact was the most incredible thing he ever felt. The warmth spread from his lips all the way through his body. In reality the kiss lasted less than a minute, but to August it felt longer and yet not long enough.

Leah sat there, at a complete loss for words. The crickets kindly filled the void left by their mutual silence. After sitting like that for a full two minutes Leah awkwardly rose to her feet. August did the same, watching her for any signs that she was feeling the same things as him.

"Leah?"

"It's been only three days. Do you really like me that much already?"

"It's new for me. I've never felt this way." More truths. August didn't want to lie to her, not about this. She smiled and leaned close, but rather than his lips she kissed his cheek instead. It still made August's heart flutter.

His bold move thankfully didn't scare her away. She met him again the next day and he, full of their kiss, presented her with a necklace he carved into the shape of a cricket.

"Crickets are very good listeners," he told her as he helped her put it on. "You can tell them anything."

"You certainly have a way with words." Her fingers played with the necklace and he watched, feeling drawn to kiss her again. Was this how it felt to be in love? All he wanted was to talk with her and listen to her laugh, to feel her hand in his, to lose all track of time gazing into her eyes.

He could feel it build up a little more every day he saw her. She started giving kisses back to him after a while. He lingered for a week, a month, two months, three… He could've stayed in that town forever.

One night he was walking her home from a movie. He was still trying to figure out how literally falling could turn an angel into a human when Leah stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. He stopped with her, moving to brush a strand of hair out of her eyes.

"You amaze me, August. Most guys wouldn't willingly go into a romantic movie. Even fewer would sit through the whole thing without making a single move on the girl."

"Are you kidding? I love stories about true love!"

"Seth reminded me of you a little," Leah confessed softly. "The way you both hang out at libraries and seem kind of mysterious. After three months I've still never been inside your house or gotten your phone number. I don't even know your last name."

"Booth!" he blurted out impulsively. "My last name is Booth."

"And it took you three months to tell me that." She took his hand in hers, squeezing it tightly. "I'm sorry, August, but you can only be tall, dark and mysterious for so long." She waited, as if she expected him to give up more of his secrets. But he couldn't; the words were stuck in his throat. Even if he did, he knew she would think he was crazy or that he was making fun of her. There was no proof that any of it was true.

His heart was in so much pain, and all he had to show for it was a cricket necklace.


	13. The Tool

_The Tool_

The first time he saw one was when he was sixteen years old. After the incident with the shopkeeper he decided to keep better track of his age: he picked August as his birth month and started counting from there. Now at sixteen, August was in a museum crashing a high school tour group. He originally joined them to be around kids his own age but now he was actually enjoying the history lesson.

He stopped in front of a beautiful piece. Its metal frame gleamed as if it were newly polished. August leaned as close as he could without disturbing the protective glass. The pull of the machine was magnetic: he could almost feel the tingle in his fingers itching to touch the keys.

Years passed since then but when he saw one again, he felt that same tingle in his fingers. All the words inside him were longing to get out.

"Excuse me," he called to the shopkeeper. "How much is that?"

"Ah, you have an excellent eye for quality, sir. This particular piece has been restored. I couldn't let it go for anything less than two hundred dollars." August felt his heart drop. He would never be able to afford that with the money he got from selling his wooden figurines. But what else could he do?

August puzzled over it as he wandered the streets. Suddenly a tire came rolling out from a building. He grabbed it before it escaped to the street.

"Dammit!" An older man wearing a blue jumpsuit poked his head out of a building. "Oh, you got it. Thank you. Bring it on in here." August obliged and found himself inside a mechanic's shop. A car was jacked up several feet in the air and missing one of its wheels. "Sorry about that," the man was saying. "I'm a little short-handed."

"Really." August idly picked up a wrench, weighing it in his hands. He watched mechanics and read about it in books. Besides, he needed something to take his mind off Leah. "I'd love to help out, if you're willing to give me a shot."

The man eyed him thoughtfully. "You know how to change a tire?" August answered with a bright smile.

There was a kind of peaceful simplicity in fixing things. He could get lost under the hood of a car, all other thoughts temporarily drifting out of his mind. It was satisfying to see the grease on his hands from a long day at work. _Work_. August still couldn't believe he was enjoying it, and that he was being paid to boot.

His co-worker kindly guided him as he worked. When he heard the man's name was Jim, August couldn't help chuckling a little. Once he got to know the man he saw Jim was exceedingly patient and hardworking. He even let August sleep in the shop after the younger man confessed he had no home. When they weren't working Jim would construct model airplanes.

"It's good to keep your hands busy," he told August. "I've been thinking… I have a friend who restores old motorcycles. If you ever wanted a change of pace, I could send you over to him."

"I'd like that. Thanks."

It took a long time but August finally made enough money to buy that beautiful piece of machinery at last. To keep it from being damaged August had fashioned a box. He was pleased when it fit snugly inside.

"I hate to pry," the shopkeeper said, "but what does a grease monkey like you want with a typewriter, anyway?"

"Well, actually…" August rested his hand on the box lovingly. The answer was so easy he didn't even need to come up with a lie. "I'm a writer."


	14. The Sideline

_The Sideline_

The motorcycle's engine puttered to silence. His foot blindly found the kickstand as the other slid over the vehicle. A group of college girls watched the driver with interest; the face revealed under the riding goggles and helmet did not disappoint them. As he passed by he flashed them a charming smile. Some time later he was back, the casual cheeriness replaced with a troubled frown.

There was a phrase about a needle and a haystack he never understood until now. Time was running short and August was starting to panic. Just going back to where he left her was difficult. He sat on the curb for the better part of an hour before finally knocking on the door. But of course Emma wasn't there, nor did they know where the foster system placed her.

After that it was one dead end after another. In every place August checked he imagined Emma: those big trusting eyes, that sweet smile, the way she laughed when he made faces… His heart twisted into guilty knots. A guilt that grew worse when they asked him why he was so interested in this missing girl. There was only one answer he could give:

"She's my sister."

Admitting that felt like admitting everything: how he abandoned her, forgot her, ran from her, tried everything he could to avoid this moment. Even now while looking for her he felt reluctant. He didn't know what he would do when he finally found her.

And then one day he did. He knew her the instant he laid eyes on her. She was beautiful like her mother, with blonde hair pulled up in a ponytail and… glasses? He wasn't expecting that.

August knew he should approach her, but what could he say? He knew nothing about her life or what she was going through. No, it was better to watch her first. Observing before acting always served him well in this world.

It wasn't long before he realized he was too late: she was out of the system and into trouble. The path she was taking was all wrong, but who was he- a complete stranger- to tell her that? He couldn't, but he knew someone who could. In the end, maybe it would be best for the one who started her off her destiny to put her back on. August already wasted so much time running from this; he couldn't let Emma make the same mistakes.

But once he did this, it would be even harder for him to face her. He would need some other way to guide her to her destiny in case his bravery left him again. August thought it over for a long time before coming up with the answer.

He opened the box containing his precious typewriter, rolled in a piece of paper, and began to type: "Once upon a time…"


	15. The Origins

_The Origins_

The wind bit against his skin, so cold he swore he could feel frost sticking to his cheek. He pulled the scarf tighter around his face. Even with that and all the other layers around him he could feel the cold seeping into his body. This weather was not for him: he preferred the warmth of sunny days. Yet here he stood enduring the freezing air and thick snow.

August craned his neck upward to get a better look at them. They were so distant, enigmatic in their stillness. If only bronze could speak. There were so many questions he wanted to ask them. He lifted a hand to run his fingers over their names. If only they knew just how powerful their words would become.

"Would you like a picture with them?" an accented voice asked him in English. August turned to see a man holding up a camera. It was one of those older models that printed exposures immediately.

"No, thank you," August responded, surprising the other man with his command of the German language. He always was very good with words.

"Not a fan, sir?"

"Oh, I am. More than you know. I just have a very good memory." He turned his attention back to the statues.

He thought of Emma, beautiful and so lost because he wasn't brave enough. Seeing her again after all those years only made him more afraid. How could he face her now after all these years? He couldn't, at least not yet. Seeing Emma made him decide to finally stop running and start over again from the beginning.

And as far as this world was concerned, these two men were the beginning. All these two men wanted was to put into writing the oral folktales popular in villages. The words spread all over the world, across generations and centuries. They sparked the imagination and made the subjects such a comforting presence they were like family. August couldn't help but wonder if these two were magical.

But no. They were just men who changed the world with words.

Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm.

_Author's Note: This chapter is dedicated to the two hundredth anniversary of the Grimm Brothers' Fairy Tales. Happy anniversary!_


	16. The Lost

_The Lost_

He rested on his back, an arm draped lazily over his abdomen. His eyes were half-closed and for a few moments he simply enjoyed the feeling of air moving in and out of his lungs. Two decades later and he couldn't get enough of that sensation. Being here in a comfortable bed was just a bonus.

Feather-light kisses brushed against his jaw. August turned to capture those lips in a kiss. The caress was soft and gentle, his fingers combing blindly through soft ebony hair. His eyes fluttered open to meet the gaze of the girl lying next to him. She was beautiful; they all were. But August thought he might just last longer than a week with this one. Her name was Carmella.

"I could tell you weren't really sleeping," she told him in Italian. "Your face always grows troubled when you sleep."

"Because I'm worried I'll miss something," he replied, also in Italian. He picked up languages so quickly that he easily built up a life wherever he went. Here in Milan, he found work in a museum while he worked on his next great novel. Or at least he always told the people who asked that's what he was doing. The box carrying his typewriter was hardly ever opened.

"I should go to work," Carmella sighed. She gave him another kiss before rolling away. "What will you do?"

"I'll keep busy," August answered vaguely. She just smiled and shook her head. That was what August liked about her: she didn't prod too much into his mysteries.

Once they were both clothed they went their separate ways: Carmella to her job as a waitress and August to the nearest church. Italy had churches everywhere and August made a point to visit every one he could. He always sat in the back, listening to the music and the words.

Whatever churches were supposed to do didn't seem to reach him. He would leave no better or worse than when he came.

Carmella came home to find him packing up his things. "I'm feeling claustrophobic," was his explanation. She didn't protest or try to stop him. It was almost like she expected it of him. All the other girls took his departure the same way. None of them ever lasted long.

In Greece, he took a job helping a farmer. Working the soil felt good; going back to his roots, so to speak. His employer was delighted to have someone with such a green thumb. It wasn't long before he caught an eager young thing's eye, and only a matter of time after that for them to be in bed together.

It was inevitable for him to leave. As soon as he started settling, he would get a restless feeling and need to move on. India found him in the mosques, Japan showed him its own stories and legends, and in Australia he stepped into the ocean for the first time in years.

August kept putting more years and miles between him and Storybrooke, Maine. But he couldn't lose it. Every time his eyes caught blonde hair his heart jumped before he remembered it couldn't be Emma. Whenever he heard crickets chirping his heart ached in loneliness for Jiminy's still, small voice. All his lovers saw his troubled sleep but never knew why. August knew and wished he could find a place far enough to lose it completely.

Packing was so natural he almost didn't notice. It wasn't until he was ready to leave the hotel room that he finally noticed: the book he worked on with such care, the thing that held all the stories of his home was gone.

He started to shake, though he didn't know if it was from relief or pain.


	17. The Curse

_The Curse_

No one in Cairo knew what to do about the dark-haired stranger. At first they were delighted that a scholar was interested in their history. But as the days wore on all they ever saw of his pursuits were crumbled up pieces of paper. When they caught sight of him they were met with a disheveled man with increasing stubble on his jaw.

They began to wonder about him: his erratic behavior, his severe case of writer's block, his dour mood… Researchers grew discouraged but this stranger was taking it to a new level. There was talk that this man was succumbing to a curse. In these modern times it was difficult to believe in such things, and yet how else could they explain what was happening?

Truthfully, August couldn't even explain it to himself. He came to Cairo hoping the ancient stories would chase away the one he lost, but the writer in him wouldn't let it go. He took out his typewriter to begin putting the story back together. No matter how long into the night he typed, or how many scenes he drew, the story evaded him. The only one he could create perfectly was his own; every other one felt wrong. The words didn't flow together and all of his drawings were distorted.

He knew what the Egyptians thought of him and naturally dismissed it. He was protected from the only curse that mattered. He brushed his struggles aside as severe writer's block and nothing more.

And yet… The one thing that was drilled into his mind was how magic always came at a price. Serious magic brought him into this world, protected him from Regina's wrath. Even good magic, like the kind that gave him life, came with a price. August always assumed the price for him was separation from his father and living with the knowledge that his father wouldn't know him. But what if there was more?

August thought of his book, of the great care he gave to every page. Every word was a memory from his old life. When he drew the pictures he would put his heart into it because these were people he loved or feared. All of that work was because deep down he wanted the reader to believe in it. What if all of his love, fears and memories were a kind of magic? What if he poured all of it into that book without knowing?

He picked up a piece of crumbled paper, smoothing it out carefully. If he were honest with himself, August would admit he wasn't putting nearly the same amount of passion into the work this time around. The story was the same yet it felt different.

August hoped that he really did put magic in the book, and that somehow it would find itself in the hands of a person willing to believe.


	18. The Town

_The Town_

He drove almost non-stop since leaving New York, pausing only long enough to fill up his motorcycle with gas or get a quick bite to eat. The last time he was so focused was when he went looking for Emma over ten years ago. The situation was even more demanding now. August knew he was pushing Faran hard and the machine wasn't going to like him for it, but he could always repair it once he arrived.

Once he crossed over into Maine he could feel the tug of Storybrooke. He never saw the place but he still instinctively knew where to go. It was getting dark now… August's gloved hands gripped the handlebars tightly, heart beating anxiously.

What would they be like, these cursed versions of people he once knew? Would there be sparks of their old selves or would that be erased completely? He was going in knowing so much, yet knowing nothing at all. He took in a deep breath and prepared himself for whatever he was about to see.

The road was empty; August wasn't surprised, as until very recently everything was paused at 8:15. He did see two people standing near a car and carefully rolled Faran to a stop. August casually dismounted and turned to see who was out at this time of night. The bright smile lit up his face without him having any control of it and he pushed his hair back.

Emma. Her face was never far from his thoughts in the ten years since he last saw her. She was beautiful… All this August absorbed in a matter of seconds before adopting the role of the casual stranger. Thankfully Emma missed that instant spark of recognition and suspected nothing. Their conversation was brief, filled with vague answers; August was enjoying himself, knowing he was piquing her curiosity.

He drove off in the direction of Granny's with the confidence she would approach him very soon. Maybe even tomorrow.

Oh, he wouldn't tell her everything. Not at once, anyway. She had to work for it, to _want_ to believe. And if it so happened that taking it one step at a time allowed him more time with her, well… all the better.

At Granny's he could see Ruby watching him with interest as he booked a room. August just smiled and pretended not to notice. Granny handed over a key with the number 2 hooked on it.

"Welcome to Storybrooke," she said.

"Thank you," he answered as he took the key. "It's a pleasure to be here."


	19. The Father

_The Father_

Working to make Emma believe was like taking a chisel to a steel wall: now and then he would cause a spark, but it was brief and quickly gone again to be replaced by stubborn resistance. At least he was finally spending time with her. Gaining her trust, forming the bond that should've been built years ago. It would never make up for what he missed, but he had these present moments.

August woke with a shooting pain in his leg. His condition was getting worse, eating away what little time he had left. So much for enjoying the moments.

It was far too easy for him to make his next move. He knew he was being watched, knew how his actions would be perceived by certain curious eyes. When a person grew curious, they became less cautious. When they were desperate, they ignored reason. Both working at once was just the combination August needed. Yet he couldn't deny that this made him ache with longing. This lie was the closest he would ever come…

"Oh, hello." The woman's voice sounded surprised when she spotted him. August lifted his head to look at her, only to look away in the next moment. "You're that writer, aren't you?"

"Yes." His eyes moved to her face and swallowed. That gentle smile, the kindness in her eyes… He remembered it all so well. "I was just passing by."

"If you have something on your mind, you're welcome to speak." She reached out and touched his arm gently. Of course she'd be able to see right through him, even with a curse getting in the way.

"It's just… my father. I haven't seen him in a very long time, and I recently found him again here in town." The truth felt strange on his tongue, foreign. And once it started it all flowed out, all the words he was holding back before. "It was a difficult parting, and years passed since then. I haven't approached him yet."

"Whatever has happened in the past, he's still your father. You should try to reunite with him. The two of you can work through your difficulties together. Just be honest." She squeezed his hands gently. That simple advice hit him harder than he expected. Everything he said was true, and yet was covered by a layer of deceit. It came without a second thought, even around her.

"I will," he promised her; that was another lie. He walked away, knowing who was watching the whole time and what they would interpret from the conversation.

That night he stood waiting, listening to the crickets chirping. They told him that the Dark One was coming… They encouraged him to be brave. August wasn't sure if what he was about to do would be considered brave or not, but he appreciated their support all the same.

"I know who you are." He turned at the voice, facing Gold with a steady expression. "And why you've come to Storybrooke."

"Well, then, I guess all the lies can finally stop…" August paused and then gave this desperate man the one word he longed for more than anything, the one word August would never get to say and mean it: "Papa."

The deception was for both of them. Neither would ever truly reunite with the one they longed for, so they welcomed the lie instead.


	20. The Condition

_The Condition_

The first time it was so painful it brought him out of an alcohol-induced sleep. It felt like his muscles were tearing, and they were in a way. Bone, muscle and skin were ripped away to be replaced by thick wood. When he touched it he couldn't feel his fingers; when he drove a knife into it he couldn't feel any pain.

August wasn't ready for this yet. He wanted to keep running, to find any other way out except the one he knew would work. Deep down he knew he would be going back, but he still tried to avoid it. But in the end he pointed his motorcycle in the direction of Storybrooke and found his way back.

The pain was sharp with his growing lies, each new deception making it spread. It shot through him with such force that it threw him out of bed. Sleep, one of the pleasures August used to indulge in, was now lost to him.

It was getting harder to breathe, harder to move. The parts that were still human were exhausted and in pain; the rest felt like nothing at all. Day by day he was getting a little closer to the end. And he was failing; Emma didn't believe. He showed her his leg, told her everything, but she walked away from him. The hurt in her eyes was like a stab in his heart. And then he was forced to see disappointment in Henry as he gave up.

His father said that the very act of trying would be enough for him. August wanted to believe that; he wanted his father to be proud of him. But if his father saw him now, would he still be proud? As the wood spread up his arms he wondered things like that. Emma, Henry, Papa, Archie… The four people in town he cared about most. The ones he disappointed and let down.

Before he became animated his father moved him with string. Somehow August remembered that: remembered the feeling of his limbs moving under the string's direction, remembered how it felt to be seen as a living thing when he was really nothing more than a lifeless puppet. That string was around his neck now, and it gave him some comfort. He closed his eyes, taking in slow breaths.

And then she was there. Emma was there with him, seeing him. She believed; he did what he came here to do. Her hand covered his wooden one, her body shaking with sobs. August wanted to lift his hand and wipe the tears away, but he couldn't move. He wanted to cry with her but the tears wouldn't come. Just for one last time, he wanted to feel the warmth of her hand.

August focused his eyes on her. He always had a very good memory: it kept the stories of the Enchanted Forest fresh after years away from it, so he could write them all down for her. Now he was taking her in so he wouldn't forget. He memorized every curl of her hair, every curve of her face, her eyes. There was no one he would've wanted to be with in this last moment more than her.

He realized something then, but he didn't say anything. Instead, August selflessly used his last moments to give her faith and belief: two things she could never find on her own. That other truth he spoke as well, but only in his mind: _I love you_.

The wood clouded over his eyes, and he was gone.


End file.
